Admitting
by kangaleigh
Summary: Sherlock watches John scurry about the flat. He recognizes the signs, the symptoms, John is showing. Not from John himself, no. But Sherlock has experienced them many times himself to know what they appear as. And he was very excited about the ending result. But will John admit his predicament? No Slash here today, folks!


**A/N: Greetings! Wow. it has been quite a while since I have posted ANYTHING on here. Life happens, you know? I changed "careers", had another baby, moved a few times. Craziness! **

**Any who, this is my first Sherlock fic! Sorry to all my previous NCIS followers who have never seen the show. You really should, though. Very exciting!  
Please let me know what you think at the end. If you don't like it, feel free to say so. Let me know if I have made a horrible mistake and if I have to greatly misjudged the characters. Thanks for reading, people!**

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John fidgeted in his seat. He shifted from one side to the next, crossing and re-crossing his legs. He turns the page of his newspaper with a sigh. After quickly scanning the articles, he gets frustrated, crumples the print into a ball and tosses it across the room. Sherlock, who has been silently observing John for the last 20 minutes from the couch, lets the tiniest bit of amusement flicker across his face. He recognizes the signs, the symptoms, John is showing. Not from John himself, no. But Sherlock has experienced them many times himself to know what they appear as. And he was very excited about the ending result.

Sherlock quickly flashed his eyes to his book page he had been pretending to read as John pushed up from his chair and stomped into the kitchen. Sherlock could hear him opening every drawer, every cabinet, before letting out a frustrated growl and stalking back into the living area. He plopped back into his chair, drumming his hands on the arms in a beat Sherlock did not recognize. He then stood up once more, walked over to the window, around the desk and eventually threw himself down onto the couch next to Sherlock.

John turns his head towards Sherlock who raises his gaze from his book to match the eye contact. John gave him a friendly smile which Sherlock returned. He sympathized with his friend, he really did. Truth was, he was feeling the exact same way John was. But, as cruel as it sounded, Sherlock found a bit of relief in seeing John suffer as well. Sherlock went back to his book and John looked around the room, drumming his fingers upon his knee. Peripheral vision allowed Sherlock to see John tilt his head and lean slightly to the side, trying to get a glimpse of the book he was reading. Sherlock looked up at John once again who was now several inches closer. John glanced up at Sherlock, to the book, then back to Sherlock, surprised, as if he hadn't noticed the man looking at him in the first place. "Yes?" Sherlock asked slowly, the baritone of his voice reverberating throughout the room.

"Nothing," said John, sitting back up straight and staring straight ahead. This time Sherlock could not stop the smirk from playing across his face. He could feel the couch vibrating as John bounced his leg up and down, up and down. The man didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. They went from being clasped in front of him, to his knees, brought up to his lap and so on. At one point he had even leaned back against the couch, crossed his right ankle over his left knee and sprawled his arms across the back of the couch. Sherlock finally closed his book and turned towards John when the man had gone as far as "boinging" one of his curls. He did, however, remain silent.

John looked as though he was going to say something, but then hesitated. He shifted in is seat a moment, angling himself a bit more towards Sherlock and then giving that friendly smile once more. And, again, Sherlock returned the sentiment. After a few more awkwardly quiet moments of the two just looking at one another, John spoke. "Sherlock, I have something to say, but I'm not sure I should."

"Why not?"

"Because I know what possible ramifications could come of it."

"Oh?"

"To be honest, I'm a little frightened by it."

Sherlock leaned forward to rest his elbows upon his knees. "Just say it, John."

He hesitated a moment and then stood up so quickly, so suddenly, that Sherlock was forced to lean back. "I'm bored!" he declared! "Completely and utterly bored!"

Sherlock stood with a huge smile on his face. "Ha ha! I knew it!"

John started pacing around the room. "I feel like I am losing my mind, I am so bored. How is it there is nothing to do?! Wait, what do you mean you knew?"

"John, you made 2 dozen waffles from scratch this morning. It wasn't _that_ difficult of a conclusion to reach."

"Well, why didn't you say anything? _Do_ anything?"

Sherlock shrugged on shoulder. "I rather enjoyed watching you sulk about the flat. I was just waiting on you to admit your predicament."

"Done. Now what do we do about it?"

Sherlock grinned and grabbed John's shoulders. "And you'll do anything I want?"

"No." Sherlock frowned, John rolled his eyes. "Within reason," he decided.

Sherlock's grin returned and he squeezed John's shoulders. "I have been waiting a while to hear you say those words." Sherlock hugged him. "Sort of," he added.

"Alright, alright," he said, patting Sherlock's back. "Let's get this over with."

Sherlock released John and headed for the kitchen. "Words every girl dreams of hearing, I'm sure." He filled the kettle and started the boiling.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you. You are getting way to excited over this."

Sherlock took a hold of John's elbow as he passed by and lead him to his regular arm chair. Sherlock sat across from him, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I have a few ideas. Ones I have been wanting to attempt, not all of which are legal, but needed a willing partner."

"What do you mean not legal?"

"Illegal."

"Oh. Well, thanks for clearing that up."

"Summary offences, at best."

"This was a bad idea..."

"I've always wanted to stage a crime scene for Lestrade."

"But he handles homicides. That would require us to murder someone. That's a bit worse than a summary offence."

"Don't be stupid, John. I would use a cadaver unclaimed from the morgue. Or-. Oh!" Sherlock sat up straight. "Oh, yes. A victim from a previously investigated case. Yes, that _is_ good."

"No," John said while shaking his head. "Not good. Not good at all. We are looked at as suspects enough as it is. Plus, then we have to deal with the charge of filing a false police report. I'm not _that_ bored." John started to stand and Sherlock raised his hand.

"Okay, okay. No staged crime scenes." John eased back into the chair. "Today." A sigh escaped John. "Fine." He leaned back into his chair. "We can do something more 'your speed'."

"My speed?" John sounded just a bit offended.

"Bored game?"

"No."

"Movie?"

"No."

"Act out Shakespeare?"

A strange look graced John's face. "No."

"Go for a walk?"

"No." John was starting to sound frustrated. He rubbed his hands over his face. Sherlock could surely come up with something more clever.

"Chase down petty thieves?"

"Better."

Sherlock slowly sat up. "I've got a _really_ good one," he growled menacingly. "But it would require your complete trust."

John nodded. "Okay. I'm listening."

There was that infamous smirk. "Kidnapping."

There wasn't even a word for the look that John's face was expressing. "Kidnap- are you serious?! We can't kidnap someone!"

"No! Of course not. That would be ridiculous. We get _ourselves_ kidnapped."

John was actually at a loss of words. He sputtered an attempt a few times before finally arriving with, "Surely you cannot be serious."

"I am," Sherlock said. "And don't call me 'Sherly'," he made a rather disgusted face.

"I wasn't."

"I hated that nickname," he muttered, mostly to himself. Sherlock stood and walked over to the window. He peeked through the sheer curtains. "There has been this local gang following us around for the better part of a week, waiting for the 'perfect moment'. Idiots."

The kettle started to hiss. "And you want to just let them kidnap us?" John got up to turn it off.

"It would be good practice, don't you think?" Sherlock headed to the kitchen, also. John poured the tea into two mugs and handed Sherlock his. "Even now they are sitting on the bench at the end of the street. Bunch of amateurs." They both leaned against the counter. "Would rid us of boredom for at least a couple of hours. More if we drag it out. And we could hand over some delinquents. Its a win-win."

"Delinquents? How old are you?"

"So? What do you think?"

John walked back to his chair. He crossed one leg over the other and rest the side of his face in his right hand. Sherlock walked back to the window and looked out it once again. John contemplated this idea. Really considered it. Normally, it would have been an outright no. No way in Hell, in fact. However, Sherlock didn't seem worried about them. (But when is he ever worried?) He also trusted Sherlock completely. With his life. And, more importantly, John was always quiet embarrassed when he was kidnaped and needed Sherlock to "rescue" him. He could use all the help he could get. And you learn best by doing, right? "How many times have you done this?"

"Let myself get kidnapped? A few."

"Has it ever gone horribly wrong?"

"I wouldn't say 'horribly'. I _am_ still alive."

"Well, it only takes once." John looked into the fireplace.

"Are you worried?"

"Sherlock, I'm always worried about you."

"So," Sherlock drew out, "you don't want to do it, then?"

John sighed and looked over to Sherlock. He seemed t have shrunken a few inches into himself. He had gotten his hopes up. And who was John to dismiss those hopes? He got to his feet. "Alright. Get your coat."

Sherlock stood up straight, seeming to become his full height once again. "Really? You're sure?"

"Positive. Just don't say that I never do anything for you."

"I would never say that."

"You said it last week."

Sherlock seemed to beam with happiness. John was sure that if Sherlock had been a puppy, his tail would have air lifted him off the ground. "Wonderful!" Sherlock exclaimed as he pranced around John to fetch his coat. He threw it on with such _pizzazz_ that the ends flourished out dramatically._ "_And, we're off!" he said while heading out the door and down the stairs.

"That Shakespeare play, it wasn't _Romeo and Juliet_ was it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It was _Hamlet_. I haven't yet perfected Juliet's potion."

"And where are you two rushing about?" Mrs. Hudson asked walking in through the front door.

"Just off to play with the neighbor boys," Sherlock said. He gave her a swift kiss to the cheek before darting out.

John peeked his head through the door before shutting it. "Don't wait up."


End file.
